“Of course she has to get a remission,” agreed Charles. “But their chemotherapy, even in the experimentally high doses, was not touching her leukemic cells. At the same time they were destroying normal cells, particularly her own immune system.”
   Cathryn wasn’t sure she fully understood what Charles was saying but at least it sounded consistent. It didn’t sound like the product of a deranged mind.
   “And I feel,” continued Charles, “that if she has a chance, she has to have an intact immune system.”
   “You mean you have another treatment?” asked Cathryn.
   Charles sighed. “I think so. I hope so!”
   “But all the other doctors agreed that chemotherapy was the only way.”
   “Of course,” said Charles. “Just like a surgeon believes in surgery. People are biased by what they know. It’s human. But cancer research has been my life for the last nine years, and I think there’s a chance I can do something.” Charles paused.
   Obviously he believed what he was saying, but was it based on reality or on delusion? Cathryn wanted desperately to believe also, but under the circumstances, it was difficult. “Do you mean there’s a chance you can cure her?”
   “I don’t want to get your hopes up too high,” said Charles, “but I think there is a chance. Maybe small, but a chance. And, more important, my treatment won’t hurt her.”
   “Have you been able to cure any of your laboratory animals that had cancer?” asked Cathryn.
   “No I haven’t,” admitted Charles, but then he added quickly, “I know that makes it sound unrealistic, but I think I didn’t have luck with the animals because I was working so slowly and carefully. The purpose there was pure research. But I was just about to try a new technique to use healthy mice as an intermediary to cure the diseased mice.”
   “But you don’t have any animals here,” said Cathryn, remembering Detective O’Sullivan’s questions.
   “Not true,” said Charles. “I have one large experimental animal. Me!”
   Cathryn swallowed. For the first moment in the conversation a red flag went up, questioning Charles’s state of mind.
   “That idea surprises you,” he said. “Well, it shouldn’t. In the past most great medical researchers used themselves as experimental subjects. Anyway, let me try to explain to you what I am doing. First of all my research has advanced to the point where I can take a cancerous cell from an organism and isolate a protein, or what is called an antigen, on its surface, which makes that cell different from all the other cells. That, in itself, is a major advance. My problem then was getting the organism’s immune system to react to the protein and therefore rid itself of the abnormal cancerous cells. This, I believe, is what happens in normal organisms. I think cancer is a fairly frequent occurrence but that the body’s immune system takes care of it. When the immune system fails, that’s when a particular cancer takes root and grows. Do you understand so far?”
   Cathryn nodded.
   “When I tried to get the cancerous animals to respond to the isolated protein, I couldn’t. I think there is some kind of blocking mechanism and that’s where I was when Michelle got sick. But then I got the idea to inject the isolated surface antigen into well animals to make them immune to it. I didn’t have time to carry out the tests but I’m certain it would be easy because the well animal will recognize the antigen as being very foreign to itself whereas in the sick animal the antigen is only slightly different from its normal proteins.”
   Cathryn’s comprehension faltered, though she tried to smile.
   Charles impulsively reached across the table and grasped Cathryn’s shoulders. “Cathryn, try to understand. I want you to believe in what I’m doing. I need you to help me.”
   Cathryn felt some inner bond loosen and fall. Charles was her husband and the fact that he needed her and admitted it was a tremendous incentive.
   “Do you remember that horses were used to make diphtheria antiserum?” asked Charles.
   “I think so,” said Cathryn.
   “What I’m explaining to you is something like that. What I’ve done is to isolate the surface antigen of Michelle’s leukemic cells that makes them different from her normal cells, and I’ve been injecting the antigen into myself.”
   “So you become allergic to Michelle’s leukemic cells?” asked Cathryn, struggling to comprehend.
   “Exactly,” said Charles with excitement.
   “Then you’ll inject your antibodies into Michelle?” asked Cathryn.
   “No,” said Charles. “Her immune system wouldn’t accept my antibodies. But luckily modern immunology has found a way to transfer what they call cellular immunity or sensitivity from one organism to another. Once my T-lymphocytes are sensitized to Michelle’s leukemic antigen, I will isolate from my white cells what is called a transfer factor and inject that into Michelle. Hopefully that will stimulate her own immune system to sensitize against her leukemic cells. In that way she’ll be able to eliminate her existing leukemic cells and any new ones that evolve.”
   “So she’d be cured?” said Cathryn.
   “So she’d be cured,” repeated Charles.
   Cathryn was not sure she understood everything Charles had said, but his plan certainly seemed sound. It didn’t seem possible that he could have figured it out if he were in the midst of a nervous breakdown. She realized that from his point of view, everything he’d done had been rational.
   “How long will all this take?” asked Cathryn.
   “I don’t know for sure it will even work,” said Charles. “But from the way my body is reacting to the antigen, I’ll know in a couple of days. That’s why I’ve boarded up the house. I’m prepared to fight any attempts to have Michelle taken back to the hospital.”
   Cathryn glanced around the kitchen, noting again the boarded windows. Turning back to Charles, she said: “I guess you know the Boston police are looking for you. They think you’ve fled to Mexico to get Laetrile.”
   Charles laughed. “That’s absurd. And they can’t be looking for me too hard because our local police know very well that I’m here. Did you notice the mailbox and the playhouse?”
   “I saw that the mailbox was crushed and the windows were broken in the playhouse.”
   “That’s all thanks to our local authorities. Last night a group came up from Recycle, Ltd. bent on vandalism. I called the police and thought they’d never showed up until I noticed one of the squad cars parked down the road. Obviously they condoned the whole thing.”
   “Why?” asked Cathryn, aghast.
   “I retained a young aggressive lawyer and apparently he’s successfully giving Recycle some trouble. I think they believe they can frighten me into calling him off.”
   “My God!” exclaimed Cathryn, beginning to appreciate the extent of Charles’s isolation.
   “Where are the boys?” asked Charles.
   “Chuck’s at Mother’s. Jean Paul is in Shaftesbury, staying with a friend.”
   “Good,” said Charles. “Things might get rough around here.”
   Husband and wife, both at the limits of their emotional reserves, stared at each other across the kitchen table. A surge of love swept over them. They stood up and fell into each other’s arms, holding on desperately as if they were afraid something would force them apart. They both knew nothing was resolved, but the reaffirmation of their love gave them new strength.
   “Please trust me, and love me,” said Charles.
   “I love you,” said Cathryn, feeling tears on her cheek. “That’s never been a problem. The issue has only been Michelle.”
   “Then trust that I have only her best interests at heart,” said Charles. “You know how much I love her.”
   Cathryn pulled away to look up into Charles’s face. “Everyone thinks you’ve had a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know what to think, particularly with your carrying on about Recycle when the real issue was Michelle’s treatment.”
   “Recycle just gave me something to do. The most frustrating part of Michelle’s illness was that I couldn’t do anything, which is what happened with Elizabeth. Back then all I could do was watch her die, and it seemed as if it was going to be the same situation with Michelle. I needed something to focus on, and Recycle galvanized my need for action. But my anger about what they’re doing is real enough, as well as my commitment to get them to stop. But obviously my main interest is Michelle, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.”
   Cathryn felt as if she’d been freed from an enormous weight. She was now certain that Charles had never lost contact with reality.
   “What about Michelle’s condition?” asked Cathryn.
   “Not good,” admitted Charles. “She’s a terribly sick child. It’s amazing how aggressive her disease is. I’ve given her morphine because she’s had awful stomach cramps.” Charles embraced Cathryn again and averted his face.
   “She had some while I was with her, too,” said Cathryn. She could feel Charles tremble as he fought back his tears. Cathryn held him as tightly as she could.
   They stood together for another five minutes. There were no words but the communication was total. Finally Charles pulled away. When he turned back she saw that his eyes were red, his expression serious.
   “I’m glad we had the opportunity to talk,” said Charles. “But I don’t think you should stay here. Without doubt there will be trouble. It’s not that I don’t want you to be with me; in fact, selfishly I’d like you to stay. But I know it would be better if you got Jean Paul and went back to your mother’s.” Charles nodded his head as if he were convincing himself.
   “I want you to be selfish,” said Cathryn. She experienced a new sense of confidence that she could be a wife. “My place is here. Jean Paul and Chuck will be all right.”
   “But Cathryn…”
   “No buts,” said Cathryn. “I’m staying and I’m helping.”
   Charles examined his wife’s face. She looked positively defiant.
   “And if you think,” she continued with a vehemence that he had never seen, “that you can get rid of me now that you’ve convinced me what you’re doing is right, you are crazy! You’ll have to throw me out bodily.”
   “All right, all right,” said Charles with a smile. “I won’t throw you out. But we could be in for a rough time.”
   “It’s as much my responsibility as yours,” said Cathryn with conviction. “This is a family affair and I’m part of this family. We both recognized that when we decided to get married. I’m not here just to share the happiness.”
   Charles experienced a mixture of emotions, but the primary one was pride. He had been guilty of not giving Cathryn the credit she deserved. She was right; Charles had tried whenever it was possible to shield her from the negative aspects of their life, and that was wrong. He should have been more open, more trusting. Cathryn was his wife, not his child.
   “If you want to stay, please do,” he said.
   “I want to stay,” said Cathryn simply.
   Charles kissed her gently on the lips. Then he stepped back to look at her with an admiring eye.
   “You really can help,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s almost time to give myself another dose of Michelle’s antigen. I’ll explain what you can do to help after I get it prepared. Okay?”
   Cathryn nodded and let Charles squeeze her hand before he walked back to the living room.
   Holding on to the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Cathryn felt a little dizzy. Everything that had happened in the last several days was unexpected. There had never been a moment that she’d thought Charles would have taken Michelle to their home. She wondered if there were some way to cancel the guardianship proceedings and eliminate one of the reasons Charles was being sought by the police.
   Picking up the phone, she dialed her mother. While she waited for the connection, she realized that if she told her mother that Charles was there it would precipitate an argument, so she decided to say nothing.
   Gina answered on the second ring. Cathryn kept the conversation light, not mentioning her visit to the Weinburger or the fact that Charles was suspected of grand larceny. When there was a pause, she cleared her throat and said: “Provided you don’t mind seeing that Chuck gets some dinner and gets off to school in the morning, I think I’ll spend the night here. I want to be available in case Charles calls.”
   “Honey, don’t feel that you have to sit around and wait for that man. I tell you, he’ll call here if there’s no answer at your house. Besides, I’ve been planning on having a wonderful dinner tonight. Try and guess what I’m making.”
   Cathryn let out her breath in a quiet sigh. It never failed to amaze her that her mother always believed that a good meal could fix everything.
   “Mother, I don’t want to guess what you are having for dinner. I want to stay here tonight in my own home.”
   Cathryn could tell she’d hurt her mother’s feelings, but under the circumstances she didn’t feel she had much choice. As quickly as she could without seeming to be rude, Cathryn hung up.

   Thinking of food, Cathryn checked the refrigerator. Except for being low on milk and eggs, they were reasonably well stocked, especially with the old-fashioned root cellar in the basement. Closing the refrigerator, Cathryn looked around her boarded-up kitchen, marveling at being a prisoner in her own house.
   She wondered about Charles’s treatment for Michelle. She acknowledged that she didn’t understand its details, but it sounded good. At the same time, she recognized that if she were with Dr. Keitzman, she’d probably believe what he said. Medicine was too complicated for her to feel confident enough to question the experts. As a lay person she was put in an impossible situation when the doctors disagreed.
   When she went into the living room, Charles was holding a syringe with its needle up, tapping it with his index finger to get rid of air bubbles. Quietly she took a seat and watched. Michelle was still sleeping, her thin hair splayed out on the white pillow. Through the boards on the windows, Cathryn could see it was snowing again. In the basement, she could hear the oil burner kick on.
   “Now I’m going to inject this into my arm vein,” said Charles, looking for a tourniquet. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do it for me.”
   Cathryn felt her mouth go dry. “I can try,” she said reluctantly. In truth she wanted no part of the syringe. Even looking at it made her feel faint.
   “Would you?” asked Charles. “Unless you’re an addict, it’s harder than hell to stick yourself in a vein. Also I want to tell you how to give me epinephrine if I need it. With the first intravenous dose of Michelle’s antigen, I developed some anaphylaxis, meaning an allergic reaction which makes breathing difficult.”
   “Oh, God,” said Cathryn to herself. Then to Charles she said: “Isn’t there another way to take the antigen, like eating it?”
   Charles shook his head. “I tried that but stomach acid breaks it down. I even tried sniffing a powdered form like cocaine, but the mucous membrane in my nose swelled unbelievably. Since I’m in a hurry I decided I’d have to mainline it. The problem is that my body’s first response has been to develop a simple allergy, what they call immediate hypersensitivity. I’ve tried to cut down on that effect by altering the protein slightly. I want delayed hypersensitivity, not immediate.”
   Cathryn nodded as if she understood, but she’d comprehended nothing except the cold feel of the syringe. She held it with her fingertips as if she expected it to injure her. Charles brought a chair over and placed it in front of hers. On a counter top within reach he put two smaller syringes.
   “These other syringes are the epinephrine. If I suddenly go red as a beet and can’t breathe, just jam one of these into any muscle and inject. If there’s no response in thirty seconds, use the next one.”
   Cathryn felt a strange terror. But Charles seemed blithely unconcerned. He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up above his elbow. Using his teeth to hold one end of the tourniquet, Charles applied the rubber tubing to his own upper arm. Quickly his veins engorged and stood out.
   “Take off the plastic cover,” instructed Charles, “then just put the needle into the vein.”
   With visibly trembling hands, Cathryn got the cover off the needle. Its sharp point glistened in the light. Charles tore open an alcohol pad with his right hand, holding the packet in his teeth. Vigorously he swabbed the area.
   “Okay, do your stuff,” said Charles looking away.
   Cathryn took a breath. Now she knew why she’d never considered medicine as a career. Trying to hold the syringe steady she put the needle on Charles’s skin and gently pushed. The skin merely indented.
   “You have to give it a shove,” said Charles, still looking away.
   Cathryn gave the syringe a little push. It indented Charles’s skin a little more.
   Charles looked down at his arm. Reaching around with his free hand he gave the needle a sudden forceful lunge and it broke through the skin, impaling the vein.
   “Perfect,” he said. “Now draw back on the plunger without disturbing the tip.”
   Cathryn did as Charles asked and some bright red blood swished into the syringe.
   “Bull’s-eye,” said Charles, as he took off his tourniquet. “Now slowly inject.”
   Cathryn pushed the plunger. It moved easily. When it was slightly more than halfway, her finger slipped. The needle dove into Charles more deeply as the plunger completed its movement. A small egg rapidly appeared on his arm.
   “That’s okay,” said Charles. “Not bad for your first time. Now pull it out.”
   Cathryn pulled the needle out and Charles slapped a piece of gauze over the site.
   “I’m sorry,” said Cathryn, terrified that she’d hurt him.
   “No problem. Maybe putting some of the antigen subcutaneously will help. Who knows?” Suddenly his face began to get red. He shivered. “Damn,” he managed. Cathryn could hear his voice had changed. It was much higher. “Epinephrine,” he said with some difficulty.
   She grabbed for one of the smaller syringes. In her haste to remove the plastic cover she bent the needle. She grabbed for the other one. Charles, who was now blotching with hives, pointed to his left upper arm. Holding her breath, Cathryn jammed the needle into the muscle. This time she used ample force. She pressed the plunger and pulled it out. Quickly she discarded the used syringe, and picked up the first one, trying to straighten the bent needle. She was about to give it to Charles when he held up his hand.
   “It’s okay,” he managed, his voice still abnormal. “I can already feel the reaction subsiding. Whew! Good thing you were here.”
   Cathryn put down the syringe. If she thought she was trembling before, now she was shaking. For Cathryn, using a needle on Charles had been the supreme test.

Fourteen

   By nine-thirty they were settling in for the night. Earlier Cathryn had prepared some food while Charles worked in the makeshift lab. He’d taken a sample of his blood, separated the cells, and isolated some T-lymphocytes with the aid of sheep erythrocytes. Then he’d incubated the T-lymphocytes with some of his microphages and Michelle’s leukemic cells. While they had dinner he told Cathryn that there still was no sign of a delayed, cell-mediated hypersensitivity. He told her that in twenty-four hours, he’d have to give himself another challenge dose of Michelle’s antigen.
   Michelle had awakened from her morphine-induced sleep and was overjoyed to see Cathryn. She’d not remembered seeing her stepmother arrive. Feeling somewhat better, she had even eaten some solid food.
   “She seems better,” whispered Cathryn as they carried the dishes back to the kitchen.
   “It’s more apparent than real,” said Charles. “Her system is just recovering from the other medicines.”
   Charles had built a fire and brought their king-sized mattress down to the living room. He had wanted to be close to Michelle in case she needed him.
   Once Cathryn lay down, she felt a tremendous fatigue. Believing that Michelle was as comfortable and content as possible, Cathryn allowed herself to relax for the first time in two days. As the wind blew snow against the front windows, she held on to Charles and let sleep overwhelm her.
   Hearing the crash and tinkle of glass, Cathryn sat up by pure reflex, unsure what the noise had been. Charles, who had been awake, reacted more deliberately, rolling off the mattress onto the floor and standing up. As he did so he hefted his shotgun and released the safety catch.
   “What was that?” demanded Cathryn, her heart pounding.
   “Visitors,” said Charles. “Probably our friends from Recycle.”
   Something thudded up against the front of the house, then fell with a thump on the porch floor.
   “Rocks,” said Charles, moving over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness. Michelle murmured and Cathryn made her way over to the child’s side to comfort her.
   “Just as I thought,” said Charles, peering between the window boards.
   Cathryn came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Standing in their driveway about a hundred feet from the house was a group of men carrying makeshift torches. Down on the road were a couple of cars haphazardly parked.
   “They’re drunk,” said Charles.
   “What are we going to do?” whispered Cathryn.
   “Nothing,” said Charles. “Unless they try to get inside or come too close with those torches.”
   “Could you shoot someone?” asked Cathryn.
   “I don’t know,” said Charles, “I really don’t know.”
   “I’m going to call the police,” said Cathryn.
   “Don’t bother,” said Charles. “I’m sure they know about this.”
   “I’m still going to try,” returned Cathryn.
   She left him by the window and made her way back to the kitchen where she dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the Shaftesbury police. The phone rang eight times before a tired voice answered. He identified himself as Bernie Crawford.
   Cathryn reported that their house was being attacked by a group of drunks and that they needed immediate assistance.
   “Just a minute,” said Bernie.
   Cathryn could hear a drawer open and Bernie fumbled around for something.
   “Just a minute. I gotta find a pencil,” said Bernie, leaving the line again before Cathryn could talk. Outside she heard a yell, and Charles came scurrying into the kitchen, going up to the window on the north side facing the pond.
   “Okay,” said Bernie coming back on the line. “What’s the address?”
   Cathryn quickly gave the address.
   “Zip code?” asked Bernie.
   “Zip code?” questioned Cathryn. “We need help right now.”
   “Lady, paperwork is paperwork. I gotta fill out a form before I dispatch a car.”
   Cathryn gave a zip code.
   “How many guys in the group?”
   “I’m not sure. Half a dozen.”
   Cathryn could hear the man writing.
   “Are they kids?” asked Bernie.
   “Cathryn!” yelled Charles. “I need you to watch out the front. They’re torching the playhouse but it may be just a diversion. Somebody has got to watch the front door.”
   “Listen,” shouted Cathryn into the phone. “I can’t talk. Just send a car.” She slammed down the phone and ran back into the living room. From the small window next to the fireplace she could see the flickering glow from the playhouse. She turned her attention to the front lawn. The group with the torches was gone but she could see someone lifting something out of the trunk of one of the cars. In the darkness, it looked like a pail. “Oh, God, don’t let it be gasoline,” said Cathryn.
   From the back of the house Cathryn could hear glass breaking. “Are you all right?” she called.
   “I’m all right. The bastards are breaking the windows to your car.”
   Cathryn heard Charles unlock the rear door. Then she heard the boom of his shotgun. The sound reverberated through the house. Then the door slammed shut.
   “What happened?” yelled Cathryn.
   Charles came back into the living room. “I shot into the air. I suppose it’s the only thing they respect. They ran around this way.”
   Cathryn looked back out. The group had reassembled around the man coming from the car. In the light of the torches, Cathryn could see that he was carrying a gallon can. He knelt down, apparently opening it.
   “Looks like paint,” said Cathryn.
   “That’s what it is,” said Charles.
   While they watched the group began to chant “Communist” over and over. The man with the paint can approached the house seemingly building up the courage of the rest of the group. As they got closer, Cathryn could see that the men were carrying an assortment of clubs. The chanting got progressively louder. Charles recognized Wally Crabb and the man who had punched him.
   The group stopped about fifty feet from the house. The man with the paint kept walking as the others egged him on. Charles pulled away from the window, making her stand behind him. He had a clear view of the door, and he slipped his finger around the trigger.
   They heard the footsteps stop and then the sound of a paintbrush against the shingles. After five minutes there was a final sound of paint splashing up against the front door, followed by the clatter of the can hitting the front porch.
   Rushing back to the window, Charles could see that the men were yelling and whooping with laughter. Slowly they walked back down the drive pushing and shoving each other into the snow. At the base of the driveway and after several vociferous arguments, the men climbed into the two cars. With horns blaring they drove off into the night, heading north on Interstate 301 toward Shaftesbury.
   As abruptly as it had been broken, the wintry silence returned. Charles let out a long breath. He put down the shotgun and took Cathryn’s hands in his. “Now that you’ve seen how unpleasant it is, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to your mother’s until this is over.”
   “No way,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. Then she broke away to tend to Michelle.
   Fifteen minutes later the Shaftesbury police cruiser skidded up the driveway and came to a sudden stop behind the station wagon. Frank Neilson hurried from the front seat as if he were responding to an emergency.
   “You can just get right back inside your car, you son-of-a-bitch,” said Charles, who had come out on the front porch.
   Frank, standing defiantly with his hands on his hips and his feet spread apart, just shrugged. “Well, if you don’t need me.”
   “Just get the fuck off my land,” snarled Charles.
   “Strange people this side of town,” said Frank loudly to his deputy as he got back into the car.

   Morning crept over the frozen countryside, inhibited by a pewter-colored blanket of high clouds. Charles and Cathryn had taken turns standing watch, but the vandals had not returned. As dawn arrived Charles felt confident enough to return to the bed in front of the fireplace and slip in next to Cathryn.
   Michelle had improved considerably and, although she was still extremely weak, she could sit up, courageously managing to smile when Charles pretended to be a waiter bringing in her breakfast.
   While he drew some of his blood and again tested his T-lymphocytes for signs of delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle’s leukemic cells, Cathryn tried to make their topsy-turvy house more livable. Between Charles’s equipment and reagents, Michelle’s bed, and the king-sized mattress, the living room was like a maze. There was little Cathryn could do there, but the kitchen soon responded to her efforts.
   “No sign of any appropriate reaction with my lymphocytes,” said Charles, coming in for some more coffee. “You’re going to have to give me another dose of Michelle’s antigen later today.”
   “Sure,” said Cathryn, trying to buoy both her own and Charles’s confidence. She wasn’t sure she could do it again. The thought alone gave her gooseflesh.
   “I must think of some way to make us more secure here,” said Charles. “I don’t know what I would have done if those men last night had been drunk enough to storm the back door.”
   “Vandals are one thing,” said Cathryn. “What if the police come, wanting to arrest you?”
   Charles turned back to Cathryn.
   “Until I finish with what I’m doing, I have to keep everybody out of the house.”
   “I think it’s just a matter of time before the police come,” said Cathryn. “And I’m afraid it will be a lot more difficult to keep them out. Just by resisting, you’ll be breaking the law, and they might feel obligated to use force.”
   “I don’t think so,” said Charles. “There’s too much for them to lose and very little to gain.”
   “The stimulus could be Michelle, thinking they need to recommence her treatment.”
   Charles nodded slowly. “You might be right, but even if you are, there’s nothing else to be done.”
   “I think there is,” said Cathryn. “Maybe I can stop the police from looking for you. I met the detective who’s handling the case. Perhaps I should go see him and tell him that I don’t want to press charges. If there are no charges, then they would stop looking for you.”
   Charles took a large gulp of coffee. What Cathryn said made sense. He knew that if the police came in force, they could get him out of the house. That was one of the reasons he’d boarded up the windows so carefully; afraid of tear gas or the like. But he thought they probably would have other means which he hadn’t wanted to consider. Cathryn was right; the police would be real trouble.
   “All right,” said Charles, “but you’ll have to use the rental van in the garage. I don’t think the station wagon has any windshield.”
   Putting on their coats, they walked hand in hand through the inch of new snow to the locked barn. They both saw the charred remains of the playhouse at the pond’s edge and both avoided mentioning it. The still-smoldering ashes were too sharp a reminder of the terror of the previous night.
   As Cathryn backed the van out of the garage, she felt a reluctance to leave. With Michelle ostensibly feeling better and despite the vandals, Cathryn had enjoyed her newly found closeness with Charles. With some difficulty, since driving a large van was a new experience, Cathryn got the vehicle turned around. She waved good-bye to Charles and drove slowly down their slippery driveway.
   Reaching the foot of the hill, she turned to look back at the house. In the steely light, it looked abandoned among the leafless trees. Across the front of the house, the word “Communist” was painted in careless, large block letters. The rest of the red paint had been splashed on the front door, and the way it had splattered and ran off the porch made it look like blood.
   Driving directly to the Boston Police Headquarters on Berkeley Street, Cathryn rehearsed what she was going to say to Patrick O’Sullivan. Deciding that brevity was the best approach, she was confident that she’d be in and out in a matter of minutes.
   She had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot and ended up leaving the van in an illegal yellow zone. Taking the elevator to the sixth floor, she found O’Sullivan’s office without difficulty. The detective got up as she entered and came around his desk. He was dressed in exactly the same outfit as he’d had on twenty-four hours earlier when she’d met him. Even the shirt was the same because she remembered a coffee stain just to the right of his dark blue polyester tie. It was hard for Cathryn to imagine that this seemingly gentle man could muster the violence he obviously needed on occasion for his job.
   “Would you like to sit down?” asked Patrick. “Can I take your coat?”
   “That’s okay, thank you,” said Cathryn. “I’ll only take a moment of your time.”
   The detective’s office looked like the set for a TV melodrama. There were the obligatory stern photos of some of the police hierarchy on the chipped and peeling walls. There was also a cork bulletin board filled with an assortment of wanted posters and photographs. The detective’s desk was awash with papers, envelopes, soup cans full of pencils, an old typewriter, and a picture of a chubby redheaded woman with five redheaded little girls.
   O’Sullivan tipped back in his chair, his fingers linked over his stomach. His expression was entirely blank. Cathryn realized she had no idea what the man was thinking.
   “Well,” she said uneasily, her confidence waning. “The reason I came is to tell you that I’m not interested in pressing charges against my husband.”
   Detective O’Sullivan’s face did not alter in the slightest detail.
   Cathryn looked away for a moment. Already the meeting was not going according to plan. She continued: “In other words, I don’t want guardianship of the child.”
   The detective remained unresponsive, augmenting Cathryn’s anxiety.
   “It’s not that I don’t care,” added Cathryn quickly. “It’s just that my husband is the biological parent, and he is an M.D., so I think he’s in the best position to determine the kind of treatment the child should receive.”

   “Where is your husband?” asked O’Sullivan.
   Cathryn blinked. The detective’s question made it sound as if he hadn’t been listening to her at all. Then she realized she shouldn’t have paused. “I don’t know,” said Cathryn, feeling she sounded less than convincing.
   Abruptly O’Sullivan tipped forward in his chair, bringing his arms down on the top of his desk. “Mrs. Martel, I think I’d better inform you of something. Even though you initiated the legal proceedings, you cannot unilaterally stop them before the hearing. The judge who granted you emergency temporary guardianship also appointed a guardian ad litim by the name of Robert Taber. How does Mr. Taber feel about pressing charges against your husband in order to get Michelle Martel back into the hospital?”
   “I don’t know,” said Cathryn meekly, confused at this complication.
   “I had been led to believe,” continued Detective O’Sullivan, “that the child’s life was at stake unless she got very specific treatment as soon as possible.”
   Cathryn didn’t say anything.
   “It’s apparent to me that you have been talking with your husband.”
   “I’ve spoken with him,” admitted Cathryn, “and the child is doing all right.”
   “What about the medical treatment?”
   “My husband is a physician,” said Cathryn, as if stating Charles’s qualifications answered the detective’s question.
   “That may be, Mrs. Martel, but the court will only agree to accepted treatment.”
   Cathryn marshaled her courage and stood up. “I think I should go.”
   “Perhaps you should tell us where your husband is, Mrs. Martel.”
   “I’d rather not say,” said Cathryn, abandoning any pretense of ignorance.
   “You do remember we have a warrant for his arrest. The authorities at the Weinburger Institute are very eager to press charges.”
   “They’ll get every piece of their equipment back,” said Cathryn.
   “You should not allow yourself to become an accessory to the crime,” said Patrick O’Sullivan.
   “Thank you for your time,” said Cathryn as she turned for the door.
   “We already know where Charles is,” called Detective O’Sullivan.
   Cathryn stopped and turned back to the detective.
   “Why don’t you come back and sit down.”
   For a moment Cathryn didn’t move. At first she was going to leave, but then she realized she’d better find out what they knew and more importantly, what they planned to do. Reluctantly, she returned to her seat.
   “I should explain something else to you,” said O’Sullivan. “We didn’t put out the warrant for your husband’s arrest on the NCIC teletype until this morning. My feeling was that this was not a usual case, and despite what the people at the Weinburger said, I didn’t think your husband stole the equipment. I thought he’d taken it, but not stolen it. What I hoped was that somehow the case would solve itself. I mean, like your husband would call somebody and say ‘I’m sorry, here’s all the equipment and here’s the kid; I got carried away…’ and so forth. If that happened I think we could have avoided any indictments. But then we got pressure from the Weinburger and also the hospital. So your husband’s warrant went out over the wires this morning and we heard back immediately. The Shaftesbury police phoned to say that they knew Charles Martel was in his house and that they’d be happy to go out and apprehend him. So I said…”
   “Oh God, no!” exclaimed Cathryn, her face blanching. Detective O’Sullivan paused in mid-sentence, watching Cathryn. “Are you all right, Mrs. Martel?”
   Cathryn closed her eyes and placed her hands over her face. After a minute she took her hands down and looked at O’Sullivan. “What a nightmare, and it continues.”
   “What are you talking about?” asked the detective.
   Cathryn described Charles’s crusade against Recycle, Ltd. and the attitude of the local police, also the police’s reaction to the attack on their house.
   “They did seem a bit eager,” admitted O’Sullivan, remembering his conversation with Frank Neilson.
   “Can you call them back and tell them to wait?” asked Cathryn.
   “It’s been too long for that,” said O’Sullivan.
   “Could you just call and make contact so that the local police don’t feel they are operating by themselves,” pleaded Cathryn.
   O’Sullivan picked up his phone and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Shaftesbury.
   Cathryn asked if he would be willing to go to New Hampshire and oversee things.
   “I don’t have any authority up there,” said the detective. Then as the call went through he directed his attention to the receiver.
   “We got him surrounded,” said Bernie loud enough so that when O’Sullivan held the phone away from his ear, Cathryn could hear. “But that Martel is crazy. He’s boarded up his house like a fort. He’s got a shotgun which he knows how to use and he’s got his kid as a hostage.”
   “Sounds like a difficult situation,” said O’Sullivan. “I suppose you’ve called in the state police for assistance?”
   “Hell, no!” said Bernie. “We’ll take care of him. We’ve deputized a handful of volunteers. We’ll give you a call as soon as we bring him in so you can make arrangements to ship him down to Boston.”
   Patrick thanked Bernie, who in turn told the detective not to mention it and that the Shaftesbury police force was always ready and willing to help.
   O’Sullivan looked over at Cathryn. The conversation with Bernie had substantiated her claims. The Shaftesbury deputy seemed a far cry from a professional policeman. And the idea of deputizing volunteers sounded like something out of a Clint Eastwood western.
   “There’s going to be trouble,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. “There is going to be a confrontation. And because of Michelle, Charles is very determined. I’m afraid he’ll fight back.”
   “Christ!” said O’Sullivan, standing up and getting his coat from a rack near the door. “God, how I hate custody cases. Come on, I’ll go up there with you, but remember, I have no authority in New Hampshire.”
   Cathryn drove as fast as she thought she could get away with in the van while Patrick O’Sullivan followed in a plain blue Chevy Nova. As they neared Shaftesbury, Cathryn could feel her pulse quicken. Rounding the last turn before the house she was almost in a panic. As she came up to their property, she saw a large crowd of people. Cars were parked on either side of Interstate 301 for fifty yards in both directions. At the base of their driveway two police cruisers blocked the entrance.
   Parking the van as close as she could, Cathryn got out and waited for O’Sullivan, who pulled up behind her. The crowd gave the scene a carnival aspect despite freezing temperatures. Across the road some enterprising individual had set up a makeshift charcoal grill. On it sizzled Italian sausages which were selling briskly in a pocket of pita bread for $2.50. Next to the grill was an ash can of Budweiser beer and ice. Behind the concession a group of kids were building opposing snow forts in preparation for a snowball fight.
   O’Sullivan came up beside Cathryn and said, “Jesus, this looks like a high school outing.”
   “All except for the guns,” said Cathryn.
   Grouped behind the two police cruisers was a throng of men dressed in all manner of clothing, from army fatigues to ski parkas, and each armed with a hunting rifle. Some carried their guns in one hand, Budweiser in the other. In the center of the group was Frank Neilson, with his foot on the bumper of one of the police cars, pressing a small walkie-talkie to his ear and apparently coordinating unseen, armed men as they completed surrounding the house.
   O’Sullivan left Cathryn and walked up to Frank Neilson, introducing himself. From where Cathryn was standing, she could tell that the Shaftesbury police chief viewed the detective as an intruder. As if it were an effort, Neilson withdrew his foot from the car bumper and assumed his full height, towering a foot over O’Sullivan. The two men did not look as if they shared the same profession. Neilson was wearing his usual blue police uniform, complete with massive leather-holstered service revolver. On his head he had a Russian-style fake fur hat with all the flaps tied on top. O’Sullivan, on the other hand, had on a weather-beaten, wool-lined khaki coat. He wore no hat and his hair was disheveled.
   “How’s it going?” asked O’Sullivan casually.
   “Fine,” said Neilson. “Everything under control.” He wiped his snub nose with the back of his hand.
   The walkie-talkie crackled and Neilson excused himself. He spoke into the machine saying that the tomcat group should approach to one hundred yards and hold. Then he turned back to O’Sullivan. “Gotta make sure the suspect doesn’t sneak out the back door.”
   O’Sullivan turned away from Neilson and eyed the armed men. “Do you think it’s advisable to have this much firepower on hand?”
   “I suppose you want to tell me how to handle this situation?” asked Neilson sarcastically. “Listen, detective, this is New Hampshire, not Boston. You’ve got no authority here. And to tell you the honest truth, I don’t appreciate you big city boys feeling you gotta come out here and give advice. I’m in charge here. I know how to handle a hostage situation. First secure the area, then negotiate. So if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”
   Neilson turned his back on O’Sullivan and redirected his attention to the walkie-talkie.
   “Pardon me?” said a tall, gaunt man tapping O’Sullivan on the shoulder. “Name’s Harry Barker, Boston Globe. You’re Detective O’Sullivan from the Boston police, right?”
   “You guys don’t waste any time, do you?” said O’Sullivan.
   “The Shaftesbury Sentinel was good enough to give us a jingle. This could be a great story. Lots of human interest. Can you give me some background?”
   O’Sullivan pointed out Frank Neilson. “There is the man in charge. Let him give you the story.”
   As O’Sullivan watched, Neilson picked up a bull horn and was preparing to use it when Harry Barker accosted him. There was a brief exchange of words, then the reporter stepped aside. Pressing the button on the bull horn, Frank Neilson’s husky voice thundered out over the winter landscape. The deputized men stopped laughing and shouting and even the children were silent.
   “Okay, Martel, your place is surrounded. I want you to come out with your hands up.”
   The crowd stayed perfectly still and the only movement was a few snowflakes drifting down among the branches of the trees. Not a sound emanated from the white Victorian house. Neilson tried the same message again with the same result. The only noise was the wind in the pines behind the barn.
   “I’m going closer,” said Neilson to no one in particular.
   “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” said O’Sullivan, loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear.
   After glaring at the detective, Neilson took the bull horn in his right hand and with great ceremony started around the police car. As he passed O’Sullivan he was laughing. “The day that Frank Neilson can’t handle a piss pot of a doctor will be the day he turns in his badge.”
   While the crowd murmured excitedly, Neilson lumbered up the driveway to a point about fifty feet beyond the two police cruisers. It was snowing a little harder now and the top of his hat was dusted with flakes.
   “Martel,” boomed the police chief through the bull horn, “I’m warning you, if you don’t come out, we’ll come in.”
   Silence descended the instant the last word issued from the cone of the horn. Neilson turned back to the group and made an exasperated gesture, like he was dealing with a garden pest. Then he began walking closer to the house.
   Not one of the spectators moved or spoke. There was an excited anticipation as they all hoped something would happen. Neilson was now about a hundred feet from the front of the house.

   Suddenly the red-paint-spattered front door burst open and Charles Martel emerged holding his shotgun. There were two almost simultaneous explosions.
   Neilson dove headfirst into the snowbank lining the drive, while the spectators either fled or took cover behind cars or trees. As Charles slammed the front door, bird shot rained harmlessly down over the area.
   There were a few murmurs from the crowd, then a cheer as Frank scrambled to his feet. Then he ran as fast as his legs would carry his overweight body. As he neared the cars, he tried to stop but lost his footing and slid the last ten feet on his buttocks, slamming into the rear wheel of the police cruiser. A handful of deputies scurried around the car and pulled him up.
   “Goddamn motherfucker!” Neilson shouted. “That’s it! That little bastard is going to get what he deserves.”
   Someone asked if he’d been hit with any bird shot, but the chief shook his head. Meticulously he shook off the snow, and adjusted his uniform and holster. “I was much too fast for him.”
   A local TV news van pulled up and a camera crew alighted, quickly finding their way over to the police chief. The commentator was a bright young woman, dressed in a mink hat and a long, down-filled coat. After a brief word with Neilson, the camera lights went on, flooding the immediate area. The young woman made a rapid introduction, then turned to the police chief and stuck the microphone about an inch from his pug nose.
   Frank Neilson’s personality underwent a 180-degree change. Acting shy and embarrassed, he said, “I’m just doing my job the best way I know how.”
   With the arrival of the TV camera, the politically minded town manager, John Randolph, materialized out of the crowd. He squeezed his way into the sphere of lights and put an arm around Neilson. “And we think he’s doing a splendid job. Let’s hear it for our police chief.” John Randolph took his arm off the police chief and began clapping. The crowd followed suit.
   The reporter pulled the microphone back and asked if Frank could give the audience an idea of what was happening.
   “Well,” began Frank, leaning into the mike, “we got a crazy scientist holed up here.” He pointed awkwardly over his shoulder at the house. “He’s got a sick kid he’s keeping from the doctors. The man’s heavily armed and dangerous, and there’s a warrant for his arrest for child-snatching and grand larceny. But there’s no need to panic because everything is under control.”
   O’Sullivan wormed his way back out of the crowd, searching for Cathryn. He found her near her car, her hands pressed against her mouth. The spectacle terrified her.
   “The outcome of all this is going to be tragic unless you intervene,” said Cathryn.
   “I can’t intervene,” explained O’Sullivan. “I told you that before I came up here. But I think everything will be all right as long as the press and the media are here. They’ll keep the chief from doing anything crazy.”
   “I want to get up to the house and be with Charles,” said Cathryn. “I’m afraid he might believe I brought the police.”
   “Are you crazy?” asked O’Sullivan. “There must be forty men with guns surrounding this place. It’s dangerous. Besides, they’re not going to let you go up there. It just means one more hostage. Try to be a little patient. I’ll talk to Frank Neilson again and try to convince him to call in the state police.”
   The detective started back toward the police cruisers, wishing he’d stayed in Boston where he belonged. As he neared the makeshift command post, he again heard the police chief’s voice magnified by the bull horn. It was snowing harder now and one of the deputies was asking whether the chief could be heard up at the house. One way or the other, Charles did not answer.
   O’Sullivan went up to Neilson and suggested that it might be easier to use the portable phone and call Charles. The chief pondered the suggestion and although he didn’t respond, he climbed into his cruiser, got Charles’s number, and dialed. Charles answered immediately.
   “Okay, Martel. What are your conditions for letting the kid go?”
   Charles’s reply was short: “You can go to hell, Neilson.” The line went dead.
   “Wonderful suggestion,” said Neilson to O’Sullivan as he put the phone back into the car. Then to no one in particular he said, “How the fuck can you negotiate when there’s no demands? Huh? Somebody answer me that!”
   “Chief,” called a voice. “How about letting me and my buddies storm the place.”
   The suggestion horrified O’Sullivan. He tried to think of a way to get the chief to call in the state police.
   In front of Neilson stood three men dressed in white, hooded militarylike parkas and white pants.
   “Yeah,” said one of the smaller men, who was missing his front teeth. “We’ve checked out the place. It would be easy from the back. We’d run from the side of the barn, blow out the back door. It’d all be over.”
   Neilson remembered the men. They were from Recycle, Ltd. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do,” he said.
   “What about tear gas?” suggested O’Sullivan. “That would bring the good doctor out.”
   Neilson glared at the detective. “Look, if I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Trouble is that out here we don’t have all sorts of sophisticated stuff and to get it I’d have to call in the state boys. I want to handle this affair locally.”
   A yell pierced the afternoon, followed by a burst of shouting. O’Sullivan and Neilson turned in unison, seeing Cathryn run diagonally across the area in front of the cars.
   “What the hell?” exclaimed Neilson.
   “It’s Martel’s wife,” said O’Sullivan.
   “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Neilson. Then to the nearest group of deputies he yelled, “Get her. Don’t let her get up to the house!”
   The faster Cathryn tried to run, the more trouble she had as her feet broke through the crusted snow. Upon reaching the driveway, the snowdrift left from the plowing acted like a barrier, and Cathryn was reduced to scrambling over it on all fours. Sliding down the opposite side, she got to her feet.
   With a whoop of excitement, a half dozen of the idle deputies responded and struggled around the squad cars. It was a competition to see who got to the prize first. But the new-fallen snow made the going treacherous and the deputies inadvertently inhibited each other. Eventually two of them made it around the cars and began running up the drive as fast as they could. A murmur of excitement escaped from the crowd. O’Sullivan, on the other hand, found himself clenching his fists and urging Cathryn to greater efforts even though he knew her presence in the house would only complicate the situation.
   Cathryn found herself gasping for breath. She could hear the heavy breathing of her pursuers and knew they were gaining on her. Desperately, she tried to think of some evasive maneuver but a growing pain in her side made thinking difficult.
   Ahead she saw the red-spattered door swing open. Then there was a flash of orange light and an almost simultaneous explosion. Cathryn stopped, gasping for breath, waiting to feel something. Looking back, she could see that her pursuers had dropped into the snow for cover. She tried to run but couldn’t. Reaching the front steps she had to pull herself up with her arms. Charles, holding the shotgun in his right hand, reached out to her and she felt him yank her forward and into the house.
   Cathryn collapsed on the floor, her chest heaving. She could hear Michelle calling but she didn’t move. Charles was running from window to window. After a minute, Cathryn pulled herself to her feet and walked over to Michelle.
   “I missed you, Mommy,” said Michelle, putting her arms around her.
   Cathryn knew she’d done the right thing.
   Charles came back into the living room and checked out the front again. Satisfied, he came over to Cathryn and Michelle, and putting gun down, enveloped them in his arms. “Now I have both my women,” he said with a twinkle.
   Cathryn immediately launched into an explanation of what happened, saying over and over that she had had nothing to do with the arrival of the police.
   “I never thought for a second you did,” said Charles. “I’m glad to have you back. It’s hard watching in two directions at once.”
   “I don’t trust the local police,” said Cathryn. “I think that Neilson is a psychopath.”
   “I couldn’t agree more,” said Charles.
   “I wonder if it wouldn’t be better if we gave up now. I’m afraid of Neilson and his deputies.”
   Charles shook his head, silently mouthing, “No.”
   “… but listen to me… I think they’re out there because they want violence.”
   “I’m sure they do,” admitted Charles.
   “If you give up, give the equipment back to the Weinburger, and explain to Dr. Keitzman what you are trying to do for Michelle, maybe you could continue your experiment at the hospital.”
   “No way,” said Charles, smiling at Cathryn’s naiveté. “The combined power of organized research and medicine would bar me from doing anything like this. They’d say that I wasn’t mentally stable. If I lose control over Michelle now, I’ll never get to touch her again. And that wouldn’t be so good, would it?” Charles tousled Michelle’s hair while Michelle nodded her head in agreement. “Besides,” continued Charles, “I think my body is starting to show some delayed hypersensitivity.”
   “Really?” said Cathryn. It was hard for her to generate enthusiasm, having just witnessed the frenzied crowd outside. Charles’s apparent calm amazed her.
   “The last time I tested my T-lymphocytes there was some mild reaction to Michelle’s leukemic cells. It’s happening, but it’s slow. Even so, I think I should take another challenge dose of the antigen when things quiet down.”
   Outside Cathryn could hear the bull horn but it was muffled by the falling snow. She wished she could stop time. For the moment she felt secure, even as she sensed the evil outside.

   Because of the snow, night came early. Charles chose dinner-time to have Cathryn help him take another injection of Michelle’s antigen. He used a different technique, encouraging Cathryn to slip a catheter into one of his veins. It took Cathryn several tries but to her surprise she did it. With an intravenous line open, Charles gave her explicit instructions how to handle the expected anaphylactic reaction. He took epinephrine almost immediately after the antigen and the rather severe reaction was easily controlled.
   Cathryn made dinner while Charles devised methods to secure the house. He boarded up the second-story windows and increased the barricades behind the doors. What worried him most was tear gas, and he put out the fire and stuffed the chimney to prevent someone from dropping in a canister.
   As evening turned into night, Cathryn and Charles could see the crowd begin to disperse, disappointed and angry that there hadn’t been any violence. A few persistent gawkers remained, but they, too, drifted off by nine-thirty as the thermometer dipped to a chilling five degrees above zero. Cathryn and Charles took turns either watching the windows or reading to Michelle. Her apparent improvement had leveled off and she was again weaker. She also had a mild bout of stomach cramps, but they abated spontaneously. By ten she fell asleep.
   Except for the occasional sound of the oil burner kicking on, the house was silent, and Charles, who was taking the first watch, began to have difficulty staying awake. The wired feeling he’d gotten from the dose of epinephrine had long since worn off to be replaced by a powerful exhaustion. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and carried it back into the living room. He had to move by feel because he’d turned out all the indoor lights. Sitting down next to one of the front windows, he looked between the planks and tried to visualize the police cars, but it wasn’t possible. He let his head rest for a moment and in that moment fell into a deep, encompassing sleep.

Fifteen

   At exactly 2 A.M. Bernie Crawford gingerly put his arm over the front seat of the police cruiser and prepared to wake the snoring chief as he had been asked. The problem was that Frank hated being pulled from sleep. The last time Bernie had tried to wake the chief on a stakeout, the chief had punched him ferociously on the side of the head. When he’d finally become fully conscious, he’d apologized, but that didn’t erase the pain. Pulling his arm back, Bernie decided on a different ploy. He got out of the car, noticing that the new snow had accumulated to three inches. Then he opened the rear door, reached in, and gave the chief a shove.
   Neilson’s head popped up and he tried to grab Bernie, who quickly backed up. In spite of his bulk, the chief bounded out of the car, obviously intent on catching his deputy, who was prepared to flee down Interstate 301. But as soon as Neilson hit the five-degree air, he stopped, looking disoriented.
   “You all right, chief?” called Bernie from fifty feet away.
   “Of course I’m all right,” grumbled Frank. “What the hell time is it?”
   Back in the front seat of the cruiser, Neilson coughed for almost three minutes, making it impossible to light up his cigarette. After he’d finally taken several puffs, he took out his walkie-talkie and contacted Wally Crabb. Neilson wasn’t entirely happy with his plan, but as the deputies said, he didn’t have a better idea. Midway through the evening, everyone had run out of patience and Neilson had felt obligated to do something or lose respect. It was at that time he had agreed to Wally Crabb’s idea.
   Wally had been a marine and had spent a good deal of time in Vietnam. He told Frank Neilson that as long as you went in fast, the people inside a house never had a chance to resist. Simple as that. Then he pointed out that after it was over, Neilson could personally take the suspect to Boston and the kid to the hospital. He’d be a hero.
   “What about the guy’s shotgun?” Frank had asked.
   “You think he’s going to be sitting there with the thing in his hot little hand? Naw. After we blow the back door away, we’ll just sail in there and grab him. They’ll be so surprised they won’t move a muscle. Believe me, you’d think I’d do it if I didn’t know it would work? I might be stupid, but I’m not crazy.”
   So Neilson had relented. He liked the idea of being a hero. They decided on 2 A.M. as the time and chose Wally Crabb, Giorgio Brezowski, and Angelo DeJesus to hit the door. Neilson didn’t know the guys, but Wally Crabb said they’d been in Nam with him and were “real” experienced. Besides, they’d volunteered.
   The walkie-talkie crackled in Frank’s hand, and Wally’s voice filled the cab. “We read you. We’re all set. As soon as we open the front door, come on up.”
   “You sure this will work?” asked Neilson.
   “Relax, will you? Jesus Christ!”
   “All right, we’re standing by.”
   Neilson switched off the walkie-talkie and tossed it in the back seat. There was nothing more he could do until he saw the front door open.
   Wally slipped the tiny walkie-talkie into his parka and zipped it up. His large frame shivered with anticipatory excitement. Violence for Wally was as good as sex, maybe even better because it was less complicated.
   “You guys ready?” he asked the two forms huddled behind him. They nodded. The group had approached the Martel house from the south, moving through the pine trees until they came upon the barn. Dressed in white, courtesy of the management of Recycle, Ltd., they were almost invisible in the light but persistent snow.
   Reaching the barn, they’d made their way around the eastern end until Wally, who was in the lead, had been able to look around the corner at the house. Except for a light on the back porch, the house was dark. From that point it was about a hundred feet to the back door.
   “Okay, check the equipment,” said Wally. “Where’s the shotgun?”
   Angelo passed the gun to Brezo who passed it to Wally; the gun was a two-barrel, twelve-gauge Remington, loaded with triple zero magnum shells capable of blasting a hole through a car door. Wally flipped off the safety. Each man also had been issued a police thirty-eight.
   “Everybody remember their job?” asked Wally. The plan was for Wally to lead, blast open the rear door, then pull the door open for Brezo and Angelo to rush inside. Wally thought it was a good plan, the kind that had kept him alive through five years of Vietnam. He’d made it a habit only to volunteer for the safe part of any assault.
   Angelo and Brezo nodded, tense with excitement. They’d made a bet with each other. The one who got Martel first would be a hundred bucks richer.
   “Okay,” said Wally. “I’m off. I’ll signal for Angelo.”
   After checking the dark house once more, Wally scrambled around the edge of the barn, running low to the ground. He crossed the hundred feet quickly and noiselessly, pulling himself into the shadows below the lip of the back porch. The house remained quiet so he waved to Angelo. Angelo and Brezo joined him holding their flashlights and pistols.
   Wally glanced at the two men. “Remember he has to be shot from the front, not the back.”
   With a burst of energy, Wally thundered up the back steps and aimed the shotgun at the lock of the back door. A blast sundered the peaceful night, blowing away a section of the back door. Wally grabbed the edge and yanked it open. At the same moment Brezo ran up the steps and past Wally, heading into the kitchen. Angelo was right behind him.
   But when Wally opened the door it triggered Charles’s trap. A cord pulled a pin from a simple mechanism which supported several hundred-pound bags of Idaho potatoes which had been in the root cellar. The potatoes were hung by a stout rope from a hook directly above the door, and when the pin was pulled the potatoes began a rapid, swinging plunge.
   Brezo had just snapped on his flashlight when he saw the swinging sacks. He raised his hands to protect his face at the moment Angelo collided into the back of him. The potatoes hit Brezo square on. The impact made him accidentally pull the trigger of his pistol as he was knocked straight back off the porch into the snow. The bullet pierced Angelo’s calf before burying itself in the floor of the porch. He, too, was knocked off the porch, but sideways, taking with him part of the balustrade with the gingerbread trim. Wally, not sure of what was happening, vaulted back over the railing and scrambled off toward the barn. Angelo was not aware he’d been shot until he tried to get up and his left foot refused to function. Brezo, having recovered enough to get to his feet, went to Angelo’s aid.
   Charles and Cathryn had bolted upright at the blast. When Charles recovered enough to orient himself, he reached frantically for the shotgun. When he found it, he ran into the kitchen. Cathryn rushed over to Michelle, but the child had not awakened.
   Arriving in the kitchen, Charles could just make out the two sacks of potatoes still swinging in and out of the open back door. It was difficult to see beyond the sphere of light from the overhead back porch fixture, but he thought he made out two white figures heading for the barn. Switching off the light, Charles could see the men better. One seemed to be supporting the other as they frantically moved behind the barn.
   Pulling the splintered door closed, Charles used some rope to secure it. Then he stuffed the hole made by the shotgun blast with a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs. With a good deal of effort he restrung the potatoes. He knew that it had been a close call. In the distance he could hear the sound of an ambulance approaching, and he wondered if the man who’d been hit with the potatoes was seriously hurt.
   Returning to the living room, he explained to Cathryn what had happened. Then he reached over and felt Michelle’s forehead. The fever was back with a vengeance. Gently at first, then more forcibly, he tried to wake her. She finally opened her eyes and smiled, but fell immediately back to sleep.
   “That’s not a good sign,” said Charles.
   “What is it?” questioned Cathryn.
   “Her leukemic cells might be invading her central nervous system,” said Charles. “If that happens she’s going to need radiotherapy.”
   “Does that mean getting her to the hospital?” asked Cathryn.
   “Yes.”
   The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and Cathryn and Charles managed to keep to their three-hour watch schedule. When dawn broke, Cathryn looked out on six inches of new snow. At the end of the driveway only one police car remained.
   Without waking Charles, Cathryn went into the kitchen and began making a big country breakfast. She wanted to forget what was happening around them, and the best way was to keep busy. She started fresh coffee, mixed biscuits, took bacon from the freezer, and scrambled eggs. When everything was ready, she loaded it on a tray and carried it into the living room. After awakening Charles, she unveiled the feast. Michelle woke up and seemed brighter than she had been during the night. But she wasn’t hungry, and when Cathryn took her temperature, it was 102.
   When they carried the dishes back to the kitchen, Charles told Cathryn that he was concerned about infection and that if Michelle’s fever didn’t respond to aspirin, he would feel obliged to start some antibiotics.
   When they were done in the kitchen, Charles drew some blood from himself, laboriously separated out a population of T-lymphocytes, and mixed them with his own macrophages and Michelle’s leukemic cells. Then he patiently watched under the phase contrast microscope. There was a reaction, definitely more than the previous day, but still not adequate. Even so, Charles whooped with a sense of success, swinging Cathryn around in a circle. When he calmed down, he told Cathryn that he expected that his delayed sensitivity might be adequate by the following day.
   “Does that mean we don’t have to inject you today?” asked Cathryn hopefully.
   “I wish,” said Charles. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we should argue with success. I think we’d better inject today, too.”

   Frank Neilson pulled up at the bottom of the Martels’ driveway, skidding as he did so, and bumped the front of the cruiser that had sat there overnight. Some of the snow slipped off with a thump, and Bernie Crawford emerged, heavy with sleep.
   The chief got out of his car with Wally Crabb. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”
   “No,” said Bernie. “Been watching all night. No sign of life.”
   Neilson looked up at the house. It appeared particularly peaceful with its fresh blanket of snow.
   “How’s the guy that got shot?” asked Bernie.
   “He’s okay. They got him over at the county hospital. But I tell you, Martel is in a lot more trouble now that he’s shot a deputy.”
   “But he didn’t shoot him.”
   “Makes no different. He wouldn’t have got shot if it hadn’t been for Martel. Rigging up a booby trap is a goddamn crime in itself.”
   “Reminds me of those gooks in Nam,” snarled Wally Crabb. “I think we ought to blow the house right off its fucking foundation.”
   “Hold on,” said Neilson. “We got a sick kid and a woman to think about. I brought some sniper rifles. We’ll have to try to isolate Martel.”
   By midday, little had happened. Spectators from town drifted to the scene and, although as yet there weren’t quite as many as the day before, it was a considerable crowd. The chief had issued the rifles and positioned the men in various spots around the house. Then he’d tried contacting Charles with the bull horn, asking him to come out on the front porch to talk about what he wanted. But Charles never responded. Whenever Frank Neilson called on the phone, Charles would hang up. Frank Neilson knew that if he didn’t bring the affair to a successful conclusion soon, the state police would intervene and control would slip from his hands. That was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He wanted to have the credit of resolving this affair because it was the biggest and most talked-about case since one of the mill owners’ children had been kidnapped in 1862.
   Angrily tossing the bull horn into the back seat of his cruiser, Neilson crossed the road for an Italian sausage in pita bread. As he was about to bite into the sandwich, he saw a long black limousine come around the bend and stop. Five men got out. Two were dressed in fancy city clothes, one with white hair and a long fur coat, the other with almost no hair and a shiny leather coat cinched at the waist. The other two men were dressed in blue suits that appeared a size too small. Neilson recognized the second two: they were bodyguards.
   Frank took a bite from his sandwich as the men approached him.
   “Neilson, my name is Dr. Carlos Ibanez. I’m honored to meet you.”
   Frank Neilson shook the doctor’s hand.
   “This is Dr. Morrison,” said Ibanez, urging his colleague forward.
   Neilson shook hands with Morrison, then took another bite of his sausage sandwich.
   “Understand you got a problem here,” said Ibanez, looking up at the Martel house.
   Frank shrugged. It was never good to admit to problems.
   Turning back to the chief, Ibanez said, “We’re the owners of all the expensive equipment your suspect has up there in his house. And we’re very concerned about it.”
   Frank nodded.
   “We rode out here to offer our help,” said Ibanez magnanimously.
   Frank looked from face to face. This was getting crazier by the minute.
   “In fact, we brought two professional security men from Breur Chemicals with us. A Mr. Eliot Hoyt and Anthony Ferrullo.”
   Frank found himself shaking hands with the two security men.
   “Of course we know you have everything under control,” said Dr. Morrison. “But we thought you might find these men helpful and they have brought some equipment you might find interesting.”
   Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo smiled.
   “But it’s up to you, of course,” said Dr. Morrison.
   “Absolutely,” said Dr. Ibanez.
   “I think I have enough manpower at the moment,” said Frank Neilson through a full mouth.
   “Well, keep us in mind,” said Dr. Ibanez.
   Neilson excused himself and strolled back to his makeshift command post, confused after meeting Ibanez and his friends. After he told Bernie to contact the men with the rifles and tell them there was to be no shooting until further notice, he got into his car. Maybe help from the chemical company wasn’t a bad idea. All they were interested in was the equipment, not the glory.

   Ibanez and Morrison watched Neilson walk away from them, talk briefly with another policeman, then get into his squad car. Morrison adjusted his delicate horn-rimmed glasses. “Frightening that someone like that is in a position of authority.”
   “It’s a travesty, all right,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “Let’s get back into the car.”
   They started off toward the limousine. “I don’t like this situation one bit,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All this press coverage may whip up sympathy for Charles: the quintessential American guarding his home against outside forces. If this goes on much longer, the media is going to plaster this on every TV screen in the country.”
   “I couldn’t agree more,” said Dr. Morrison. “The irony is that Charles Martel, the man who hates the press, couldn’t have created for himself a better platform if he tried. The way things are going he could cause irreparable damage to the whole cancer establishment.”
   “And to Canceran and the Weinburger in particular,” added Dr. Ibanez. “We’ve got to get that imbecile police chief to use our men.”
   “We’ve planted the idea in his head,” said Morrison. “I don’t think there’s much else we can do at this point. It has to look like his decision.”
   Neilson was jarred from a little postprandial catnap by someone tapping on the frosted window of the cruiser. He was about to leap from the car when he regained his senses. He rolled down the window and found himself looking into a sneering face behind thick, milk-bottle glasses. The guy had curly hair that stuck out from his head in a snow-covered bush; the chief guessed it was another big-city spectator.
   “Are you Chief Neilson?” asked the man.
   “Who wants to know?”
   “I do. My name is Dr. Stephen Keitzman and this is Dr. Jordan Wiley behind me.”
   The chief looked over Dr. Keitzman’s shoulder at the second man, wondering what was going on.
   “Can we talk to you for a few minutes?” said Dr. Keitzman, shielding his face from the snow.
   Neilson got out of the car, making it clear that it was an extraordinary effort.
   “We’re the physicians of the little girl in the house,” explained Dr. Wiley. “We felt it was our duty to come up here in case there was anything we could do to help.”
   “Will Martel listen to you guys?” asked the chief.
   Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley exchanged glances. “I doubt it,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “I don’t think he’ll talk with anyone. He’s too hostile. We think he’s had a psychotic break.”
   “A what?” asked Neilson.
   “A nervous breakdown,” added Dr. Wiley.
   “Figures,” said the chief.
   “Anyway,” said Dr. Keitzman, swinging his arms against the cold, “we’re mostly concerned about the little girl. I don’t know if you realize how sick she is, but the fact of the matter is that every hour she’s without treatment, the closer she is to death.”
   “That bad, huh?” said Neilson, looking up at the Martel house.
   “Absolutely,” said Dr. Keitzman. “If you procrastinate too long, I’m afraid you’ll be rescuing a dead child.”
   “We’re also concerned that Dr. Martel might be experimenting on the child,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “No shit!” exclaimed Neilson. “That fucking bastard. Thanks for letting me know. I think I’ll tell this to my deputies.” Neilson called Bernie over, spoke to him a minute, then reached in for the walkie-talkie.
   By midafternoon the crowd was even larger than the previous day. Word had drifted back to Shaftesbury that something was going to happen soon and even the schools were let out early. Joshua Wittenburg, the school superintendent, had decided that the lessons in civil law to be learned from the episode should not be passed up; besides, he felt that it was the biggest scandal in Shaftesbury since Widow Watson’s cat had been found frozen solid in Tom Brachman’s freezer.
   Jean Paul drifted aimlessly on the periphery of the crowd. He’d never been subjected to derision before, and the experience was extremely disquieting. He’d always felt his father was a little weird but not crazy, and now that people were accusing him of being insane, he was upset. Besides, he couldn’t understand why his family hadn’t contacted him. The people with whom he was staying tried to comfort him but it was obvious they, too, questioned his father’s behavior.
   Jean Paul wanted to go up to the house but he was afraid to approach the police, and it was easy to see the property was surrounded.
   Ducking a snowball thrown by one of his former friends, Jean Paul walked back through the crowd, crossing the road. After a few minutes he thought he saw a familiar form. It was Chuck, dressed in a torn and tattered army parka with a fur-tipped hood.
   “Chuck!” called Jean Paul eagerly.
   Chuck took one look in Jean Paul’s direction, then turned and fled into a stand of trees. Jean Paul followed, calling out several more times.
   “Chrissake!” hissed Chuck, when Jean Paul caught up to him in a small clearing. “Why don’t you yell a little louder so everybody hears you?”
   “What do you mean?” asked Jean Paul, confused.
   “I’m trying to keep a low profile to find out what the hell is going on,” said Chuck. “And you come along yelling my name. Jesus!”
   Jean Paul had never considered the idea of concealing himself.
   “I know what’s going on,” said Jean Paul. “The town is after Dad because he’s trying to shut down the factory. Everybody says he’s crazy.”
   “It’s more than the town,” said Chuck. “It was on the news last night in Boston. Dad kidnapped Michelle from the hospital.”
   “Really?” exclaimed Jean Paul.
   “Really. Is that all you can say? I think it’s a goddamn miracle, and all you can say is really. Dad’s given the finger to the whole friggin’ establishment. I love it!”
   Jean Paul examined his brother’s face. A situation he found disturbing Chuck seemed to find exhilarating.
   “You know, if we worked together, we might be able to help,” said Chuck.
   “Really?” said Jean Paul. It was a rare occurrence when Chuck offered to cooperate with anyone.
   “Jesus. Say something a little more intelligent.”
   “How could we help?” asked Jean Paul.
   It took about five minutes for the boys to decide what they would do, then they crossed the road and approached the police cars. Chuck had appointed himself spokesman, and he went up to Frank Neilson.
   The chief was overjoyed to find the boys. He did not know how to proceed when the kids had presented themselves. Although he dismissed their request to go up to the house to reason with their father, he convinced them to use the bull horn, and spent a good thirty minutes coaching them on what they should say. He hoped that Charles would talk to his sons and communicate his conditions for resolving the situation. Frank was pleased that the boys were so cooperative.
   When everything was ready, Frank took the bull horn, greeted the spectators, then pointed it at the house. His voice boomed up the driveway calling for Charles to open the door and speak to his sons.
   Neilson lowered the bull horn and waited. There was no sound or movement from the house. The chief repeated his message, then waited again, with the same result. Cursing under his breath, he handed the instrument to Chuck and told the boy to try.
   Chuck took the bull horn with trembling hands. Pushing the button, he started speaking. “Dad, it’s me, Chuck, and Jean Paul. Can you hear me?”
   After the third time, the paint-splattered door opened about six inches. “I hear you, Chuck,” Charles called.
   At that moment, Chuck clambered over the front bumpers of two squad cars, discarding the bull horn. Jean Paul followed at his heels. Everyone, including the deputies, was intent on watching the house when the boys made their move, and for a moment they didn’t respond. It gave the boys a chance to clear the cars and start up the driveway.
   “Get them, goddamn it! Get them!” shouted Neilson.
   A murmur went up from the crowd. Several deputies led by Bernie Crawford sprinted around the ends of the two squad cars.
   Although younger, Jean Paul was the athlete, and he quickly overtook his older brother, who was having difficulty making headway on the slippery driveway. About forty feet beyond the squad cars, Chuck’s feet went out from under him and he hit the ground hard. Gasping for breath he struggled up, but as he did so Bernie grabbed a handful of his tattered army parka. Chuck tried to wrench himself free but instead managed to yank Bernie off balance. The policeman fell over backwards, pulling the boy on top of him. Chuck’s bony buttocks knocked the wind out of Bernie with an audible wheeze.
   Still entangled, the two slid a few feet back down the driveway, rolling into the next two deputies on their way up. The men fell in a comical fashion reminiscent of a silent-movie chase sequence. Taking advantage of the confusion, Chuck pulled himself free, scrambled out of reach, and ran after Jean Paul.
   Although Bernie was temporarily winded, the other two deputies quickly resumed pursuit. They might have caught Chuck again had it not been for Charles. He stuck the shotgun through the door and fired a single round. Any thought of heroics on the deputies’ part vanished, and they instantly took refuge behind the trunk of one of the oaks lining the driveway.
   As the boys reached the front porch, Charles opened the door, and they dashed inside. Charles slammed the door behind them, secured it, then checked the windows to make sure no one else was coming. Satisfied, he turned to his sons.
   The two boys were standing self-consciously near the door, gasping for breath, and amazed at the transformation of their living room into a science-fiction laboratory. Chuck, an old-movie buff, noticing the boarded-up windows, said it looked like the set of a Frankenstein movie. They both began to smile, but became serious when they saw Charles’s dour expression.
   “The one thing I thought I didn’t have to worry about was you two,” said Charles sternly. “Goddamn it! What on earth are you doing here?”
   “We thought you needed help,” said Chuck lamely. “Everyone else is against you.”
   “I couldn’t stand to hear what people were saying about you,” said Jean Paul.
   “This is our family,” said Chuck. “We should be here, especially if we can help Michelle.”
   “How is she, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.
   Charles didn’t answer. His anger at the boys abruptly dissolved. Chuck’s comment was not only surprising, it was correct. They were a family, and the boys should not be summarily excluded. Besides, as far as Charles knew, it was the first unselfish thing Chuck had ever done.
   “You little bastards!” Charles suddenly grinned.
   Caught off guard by their father’s abrupt change of mood, the boys hesitated for a moment, then rushed to give him a hug.
   Charles realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d held his sons. Cathryn, who’d been watching since the boys first appeared, came up and kissed them both.
   Then they all went over to Michelle, and Charles gently woke her. She gave them a broad grin and Chuck bent over and put his arms around her.

Sixteen

   Neilson had never been in a limousine before, and he wasn’t sure he was going to like it. But once he’d ducked through the door and settled back in the plush seat, he felt right at home: it had a bar. He refused a mixed drink on account of being on duty but accepted straight brandy for its medicinal powers against the cold.
   After the Martel boys had managed to get up to the house, Neilson had had to admit the situation was deteriorating. Rather than rescuing hostages, he was adding them. Instead of a crazy guy and a sick kid, he was now confronted by a whole family barricaded in their home. Something had to be done right away. Someone suggested calling in the state police but that was just what Neilson wanted to avoid. Yet it would be inevitable if he wasn’t successful in resolving the incident within the next twelve hours. It was this time pressure that had made him decide to talk to the doctors.
   “Knowing how sick the little girl is, I felt I couldn’t turn down your offer to help,” he said.
   “That’s why we’re here,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo are ready and willing to take orders from you.”
   The two security men, positioned on either side of the bar, nodded in agreement.
   “That’s great,” said Frank Neilson. The trouble was that he didn’t know what kind of orders to give. His mind raced in circles until he remembered something Dr. Ibanez had said. “You mentioned special equipment?”
   “I certainly did,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Mr. Hoyt, perhaps you’d like to show us.”
   Mr. Hoyt was a handsome man, lean but obviously muscular. Frank recognized the bulge of a shoulder holster under his suit.
   “My pleasure,” said Hoyt, leaning toward Frank. “What do you think this is, Mr. Neilson?” He handed Frank a weighty object that was shaped like a tin can with a handle protruding from one end.
   Frank turned it in his hands and shrugged. “Don’t know. Tear gas? Something like that?”
   Mr. Hoyt shook his head. “Nope. It’s a grenade.”
   “A grenade?” exclaimed Frank, holding the object away from him.
   “It’s called a concussion grenade. It’s what antiterrorist units use to rescue hostages. It’s thrown into a room or airplane and when it detonates, instead of hurting anything—except perhaps for breaking a few eardrums—it just befuddles everyone for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty seconds. I think you could use it to advantage in this situation.”
   “Yeah, I’m sure we could,” said Frank. “But we got to get it into the house. And the guy’s boarded up all the windows.”
   “Not all the windows,” said Mr. Hoyt. “We’ve noticed that the two attic windows which are easily accessible from the roof are free. Let me show you what I’d suggest.” Hoyt produced floor plans of the Martels’ house and, noticing the chief’s surprise, said: “It’s amazing what you can get with a little research. Look how the attic stairs come down to the main hall on the second floor. From that stairway it would be easy for someone like Tony Ferrullo, who’s an expert at this sort of thing, to toss a concussion grenade into the living room where the suspect is obviously staying. At that point, it would be easy to rush both the front and back doors and rescue the hostages.”
   “When could we try it?” asked Frank Neilson.
   “You’re the boss,” said Mr. Hoyt.
   “Tonight?” asked Frank Neilson.
   “Tonight it is,” said Mr. Hoyt.
   Neilson left the limousine in a state of suppressed excitement. Dr. Morrison reached out and pulled the door closed.
   Hoyt laughed: “It’s like taking candy from a child.”
   “Will you be able to make it look like self-defense?” asked Dr. Ibanez.
   Ferrullo straightened up. “I can make it look any way you want.”

   At 10 P.M. exactly, Charles reached over and switched off the dialyzer. Then, as carefully as if he were handling the most precious commodity on earth, he reached into the machine and withdrew the dialyzate in a small vial. His fingers trembled as he transferred the crystal clear solution to the sterilizer. He had no idea of the structure of the small molecule contained in the vial except that it was dialyzable, which had been the final step in its isolation, and that it was not affected by the enzymes that broke down DNA, RNA, and peptide linkages in proteins. But the fact that the structure of the molecule was unknown was less important at this stage than knowledge of its effect. This was the mysterious transfer factor which would hopefully transfer his delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle.
   That afternoon, Charles had again tested his T-lymphocyte response with Michelle’s leukemic cells. The reaction had been dramatic, with the T-lymphocytes instantly lysing and destroying the leukemic cells. As Charles had watched under the phase contrast microscope, he couldn’t believe the rapidity of the response. Apparently the T-lymphocytes, sensitized to a surface antigen on the leukemic cell, were able to pierce the leukemic cells’ membranes. Charles had shouted with joy the moment he saw the reaction.
   Having found his delayed hypersensitivity response adequate, he had canceled the next dose of antigen he’d planned to give himself. This had pleased Cathryn, who had been finding the procedure increasingly distasteful. Instead he had announced that he wanted to draw off two pints of his blood. Cathryn had turned green, but Chuck had been able to overcome his distaste for blood and, along with Jean Paul, was able to help Charles with the task.
   Before dinner, Charles had slowly separated out the white blood cells in one of the sophisticated machines he had taken from the Weinburger. In the early evening he had begun the arduous task of extracting from the white blood cells the small molecule that he was now sterilizing.
   At that point, he knew he was flying blind. What he’d accomplished would have taken years under proper research conditions where each step would have been examined critically and reproduced hundreds of times. Yet what he’d accomplished so far had been essentially done before with different antigens like the one for the tuberculosis bacillus. But now Charles had a solution of an unknown molecule of an unknown concentration and of an unknown potency. There was no time to determine the best way to administer it. All he had was a theory: that in Michelle’s system was a blocking factor, which had to that point kept her immune system from responding to her leukemic cells’ antigen. Charles believed and hoped that the transfer factor would bypass that blocking or suppressor system and allow Michelle to become sensitized to her leukemic cells. But how much of the factor should he give her? And how? He was going to have to improvise and pray.
   Michelle was not happy with the idea but she let Charles start another IV. Cathryn sat holding her hand and trying to distract her. The two boys were upstairs watching for any suspicious movement outside.
   Without telling Cathryn or Michelle, Charles prepared for any eventuality when he gave his daughter the first dose of the transfer factor. Although he had diluted the solution with sterile water, he was still concerned about its side effects. After giving her a minute dose, he monitored her pulse and blood pressure. He was relieved when he could detect no response whatever.
   At midnight the family came together in the living room. Charles had given Michelle approximately one-sixteenth of the transfer factor. The only apparent change in her status was a slight rise in her fever, and she had fallen asleep spontaneously.
   They decided to take two-hour watches. Although they were all exhausted, Chuck insisted on taking the first watch and went upstairs. Charles and Cathryn fell asleep almost instantly. Jean Paul lay awake for a while, hearing his brother wander from room to room upstairs.
   The next thing Jean Paul knew was that Chuck was gently nudging him. It seemed like he’d just fallen asleep but Chuck said it was 2 A.M. and time for him to get up. “It’s been quiet, except a van came about an hour ago and stopped by the police cars. But I haven’t seen anybody.”
   Jean Paul nodded, then went into the downstairs bathroom to wash his face. Coming back into the dark living room, he debated whether to stay on the ground floor or go upstairs. Since it was difficult to move around in the living room, he went up to his own room. The bed looked inviting but he resisted the temptation. Instead he looked out between the planks covering the window. He couldn’t see much, or even enough to tell if it was snowing or just blowing. In any case there was lots of snow in the air.
   Slowly he went from room to room as he’d heard Chuck do, gazing out at the dark. It was utterly silent except for an occasional gust of wind which would rattle the storm windows. Sitting in his parents’ bedroom which looked down the driveway, Jean Paul tried to make out a van but he was unable to. Then he heard a sound, like metal against stone. Looking in the direction of the noise, he found himself facing the fireplace. It shared the same chimney as the living room fireplace. He heard the sound again.
   With no further hesitation, he ran back down to the living room.
   “Dad,” whispered Jean Paul, “wake up.”
   Charles blinked, then sat up.
   “Four o’clock?” asked Charles.
   “No,” whispered Jean Paul. “I heard a noise up in your bedroom. Sounded like it came from the fireplace.”
   Charles sprang up, waking Cathryn and Chuck.
   “Jean Paul thinks he heard a noise,” whispered Chuck.
   “I know I heard a noise,” returned Jean Paul, indignant.
   “Okay! Okay!” said Charles. “Listen, we need at least one more day. If they’re trying to break in, we’ve got to stop them.”
   Charles gave the gun to Cathryn and sent her to the back door. He positioned the boys by the front door with Jean Paul’s baseball bat. Taking the poker for himself, Charles climbed the stairs and went into the master bedroom. Standing by the fireplace he congratulated himself on having the foresight to pack the chimneys. But he heard nothing except the wind under the eaves.
   After several minutes Charles walked out of the master bedroom, crossed the hall, and entered Michelle’s room. From here he could see the barn, where the previous night’s assault had originated, but all he saw now were the pines, rustling in the wind.

   Anthony Ferrullo placed an aluminum ladder against the chimney and climbed onto the roof. Catlike, he moved along the ridge to one of the attic windows. Then, using a rope as a precaution against slipping, he worked his way down the slope of the roof to the base of one of the dormers, where he cut out a small circle of glass. Slowly he opened the window, smelling the musty odor of the attic. Turning on his flashlight, he looked inside. There were the usual trunks and cartons, and he was pleased to see a floor rather than widely spaced beams. He dropped into the room without making the slightest noise.
   Ferrullo waited, listening for sounds of movement in the house. He was in no hurry. He was certain Hoyt was already in position below the front porch, ready to storm the front door. Neilson had insisted that two of his deputies participate. They were to storm the back door after the explosion, but if things went the way Ferrullo intended, the job would be over before they entered.
   Satisfied all was quiet, Anthony moved forward slowly, testing each place he put his foot before he shifted his weight onto it. He was directly over Charles’s head.
   Charles stared at the barn for some five minutes, until he was convinced there was no activity there. Wondering what Jean Paul could have heard, he turned back toward the hall. Suddenly the ceiling joists above him squeaked. Freezing, Charles listened intently, hoping he’d imagined the sound. Then it was repeated.
   A shiver of fear passed through his exhausted body. Someone was in the attic!
   Gripping the poker and feeling the perspiration on his hands, Charles began to follow the sounds above him. Soon he’d advanced to the wall of Michelle’s room, behind which were the attic stairs. Looking out into the hall, he could just make out the attic door in the darkness. It was closed but not locked. The skeleton key protruded temptingly from the mechanism. Hearing the first step on the stairs, his heart began to pound. He’d never experienced such terror. Frantically he debated whether to lock the door or just wait for the intruder to appear.
   Whoever was coming down the stairs was agonizingly slow. Charles gripped the poker with all the force he could muster. Abruptly the furtive steps halted and there was nothing but silence. He waited, his panic growing.
   Downstairs, Charles heard Michelle stir in her sleep. He winced, hoping no one would call up to him, or worse yet, come up the stairs. He heard Jean Paul whisper something to Chuck.
   The noises coming from the living room seemed to activate the movement on the attic stairs. Charles heard the sound of another step, then to his horror the knob began to turn very slowly. He grasped the poker with both hands and lifted it above his head.
   Anthony Ferrullo slowly opened the door about eight inches. He could see across the short hall to the balustrade connecting to the banister of the main stairs. From there it was a straight drop to the living room. After checking the position of his holster, he unclipped the concussion grenade from his belt and pulled the pin from the timing fuse.
   Charles could not stand the waiting another second, especially since he was sure he wouldn’t be able to actually strike the intruder. Impulsively he lifted his foot and kicked the attic door closed. He felt a slight resistance but not enough to keep it from slamming shut. He leaped forward, intending to turn the key in the lock.
   He never got to the door. There was a tremendous explosion. The attic door burst open, sending Charles flying back into Michelle’s room with his ears ringing. Scrambling on all fours, he saw Ferrullo topple from the attic stairs to the hall floor.
   Cathryn and the boys jumped at the explosion, which was followed by a rush of footsteps on the front and back porches. In the next instant a sledgehammer crashed through the glass panel and its wooden cover next to the front door just inches from Chuck’s head. A groping hand reached through the opening for the doorknob. Chuck reacted by grabbing the hand and pulling. Jean Paul dropped the bat and leaped to his brother’s aid. Their combined strength pulled the unwilling arm to its limit, forcing it up against the shards of glass left in the panel. The unseen man yelled in pain. A pistol sounded and splinters flew from the door, convincing the boys to let go.
   In the kitchen Cathryn tightened her hold on the shotgun as two men wrestled with the already broken back door. They succeeded in releasing the securing rope and pulled the door open. The potatoes swung out, but this time the men were able to duck. Wally Crabb grabbed the sack on its return swing, while Brezo headed through the door. With the gun pointed downward, Cathryn pulled the trigger. A load of bird shot roared into the linoleum, ricocheting up and spraying the doorway and Brezo. Brezo reversed direction and followed Wally off the porch as Cathryn pumped another shell into the chamber and blasted the empty doorway.
   As abruptly as the violence started it was over. Jean Paul ran into the kitchen to find Cathryn immobilized by the experience. He closed the back door and resecured it, then took the gun from her shaking hands. Chuck went upstairs to see if Charles was all right and was surprised to see his father bending over, examining a scorched and dazed stranger.
   With Chuck’s help, Charles got the man downstairs and bound him to a chair in the living room. Cathryn and Jean Paul came in from the kitchen and the family tried to pull themselves together after the nerve-shattering excitement. There was no hope for sleep for anyone except Michelle. After a few minutes the boys volunteered to resume watch and disappeared upstairs. Cathryn went into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.
   Charles returned to his machines, his heart still pounding. He gave Michelle another dose of the transfer factor through her IV, which she again tolerated with no apparent ill effects. In fact, she didn’t even wake up. Convinced the molecule was nontoxic, Charles took the rest of the solution and added it to Michelle’s half-empty intravenous bottle, fixing it to run in over the next five hours.
   With that done, Charles went over to his unexpected prisoner, who had regained his senses. Despite his burns, he was a handsome man with intelligent eyes. He looked nothing at all like the local thug Charles expected. What worried him was the fact that the man seemed to be a professional. When Charles had examined him, he’d removed a shoulder holster containing a Smith & Wesson stainless steel.38 special. That wasn’t a casual firearm.
   “Who are you?” asked Charles.
   Anthony Ferrullo sat as if carved from stone.
   “What are you doing here?”
   Silence.
   Self-consciously, Charles reached into the man’s jacket pockets, finding a wallet. He pulled it out. Mr. Ferrullo did not move. Charles opened the wallet, shocked at the number of hundred-dollar bills inside. There were the usual credit cards, as well as a driver’s license. Charles slipped the driver’s license out and held it up to the light. Anthony L. Ferrullo, Leonia, New Jersey. New Jersey? He turned back to the wallet and found a business card. Anthony L. Ferrullo; Breur Chemicals; Security. Breur Chemicals!
   Charles felt a shiver of fear pass over him. Up until that moment he had felt that whatever risk he was taking in standing up against organized medical and industrial interests could be resolved in a court of law. Mr. Anthony Ferrullo’s presence suggested the risk was considerably more deadly. And most disturbing, Charles realized that the risk extended to his whole family. In Mr. Ferrullo’s case, “security” was obviously a euphemism for coercion and violence. For a moment the security man was less an individual than a symbol of evil, and Charles had to keep himself from striking out at him in blind anger. Instead he began turning on lights, all of them. He wanted no darkness, no more secrecy.
   Calling the boys down from upstairs, the family gathered in the kitchen.
   “Tomorrow it’s over,” said Charles. “We’re going to walk out of here and give up.”
   Cathryn was glad, but the boys looked at each other in consternation. “Why?” asked Chuck.
   “I’ve done what I wanted to do for Michelle, and the fact of the matter is that she might need some radiotherapy at the hospital.”
   “Is she going to get better?” said Cathryn.
   “I have no idea,” admitted Charles. “Theoretically there’s no reason why not, but there’s a hundred questions I haven’t answered. It’s a technique outside of all accepted medical practices. At this point all we can do is hope.”
   Charles walked over to the phone and called all the media people he could think of, including the Boston TV stations. He told anyone who’d listen that he and his family would emerge at noon.
   Then he called the Shaftesbury police, told a deputy who he was, and asked to speak to Frank Neilson. Five minutes later the chief was on the phone. Charles told him that he’d called the media and informed them that he and his family were coming out at noon. Then he hung up. Charles hoped that the presence of so many newspaper and TV reporters would eliminate any possible violence.

   At exactly 12 o’clock, Charles removed the planks securing the front door and released the lock. It was a glorious day with a clear blue sky and a pale winter sun. At the bottom of the drive, in front of a crowd of people, were an ambulance, the two police cars, and a handful of TV news vans.
   Charles looked back at his family and felt a rush of pride and love. They’d stood behind him more than he could have hoped. Walking back to the makeshift bed, he scooped Michelle into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.
   “All right, Mr. Ferrullo, after you,” said Charles.
   The security man stepped out onto the porch, his scorched face gleaming in the sun. Next came the two boys, followed by Cathryn. Charles brought up the rear with Michelle. In a tight group they started down the driveway.
   To his surprise Charles saw Dr. Ibanez, Dr. Morrison, Dr. Keitzman, and Dr. Wiley all standing together near the ambulance. As they got closer and the crowd realized there would not be any violence, a number of the men began to boo, particularly those from Recycle, Ltd. Only one person clapped, and that was Patrick O’Sullivan, who was immensely pleased the affair was coming to a peaceful close.
   Standing in the shadow of the trees, Wally Crabb was silent. He slid his right index finger under the trigger of his favorite hunting rifle and pressed his cheek against the cold stock. As he tried to sight, the front of the rifle shook from all the bourbon he’d consumed that morning. Leaning up against a nearby branch helped considerably, but Brezo’s urging to hurry made him nervous.
   The sharp crack of a firearm shattered the winter stillness. The crowd strained forward as they saw Charles Martel stumble. He didn’t fall but rather sank to his knees, and as gently as if handling a newborn infant, he laid his daughter in the snow before he fell facedown beside her. Cathryn turned and screamed, then threw herself to her knees, trying to see how badly her husband was hurt.
   Patrick O’Sullivan was the first to react. By professional reflex, his right hand sought the handle of his service revolver. He didn’t draw the gun but rather held on to it as he bullied his way between several onlookers and charged up the driveway. Hovering over Cathryn and Charles like a hawk guarding its nest, his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for suspicious movement.

Seventeen

   Never having been a hospital patient before, Charles found the experience agonizing. He’d read some editorials in the past about the problems associated with the technological invasion of medicine, but he never imagined the state of insecurity and powerlessness he would feel. It had been three days since he’d been shot and then operated on, and as he looked up at the tangle of tubes and bottles, monitors and recorders, he felt like one of his own experimental animals. Thankfully, the day before he had been transferred out of the frenzied terror of the intensive care unit, and deposited like a piece of meat in a private room in the fancy section of the hospital.
   Trying to adjust his position, Charles felt a frightening stab of pain that tightened around his chest like a band of fire. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if he had opened his incision, and waited for the pain to return. To his relief it didn’t, but he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. From his left side, between his ribs, protruded a rubber tube that ran down to a bottle on the floor next to the bed. His left arm was strung up in traction by a complicated net of wires and pulleys. He was immobilized and totally at the mercy of the staff for even the most basic of functions.
   A soft knock caught his attention. Before he could respond, the door silently opened. Charles was afraid it was the technician who came every four hours to forcibly inflate his lungs, a procedure Charles was sure had not been equaled in pain since the Inquisition. Instead it was Dr. Keitzman.
   “Could you stand a short visit?” he asked.
   Charles nodded. Although he didn’t feel like talking, he was eager to hear about Michelle. Cathryn had not been able to tell him anything except that she wasn’t worse.
   Dr. Keitzman came into the room self-consciously, pulling a metal and vinyl chair over next to Charles’s bed. His face contorted with the tic that usually connoted tension and he adjusted his glasses.
   “How do you feel, Charles?” he asked.
   “Couldn’t be better,” said Charles, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing. Talking, even breathing, were risky affairs and at any moment he expected the pain to return.
   “Well, I have some good news. It might be a little premature, but I think you should know.”
   Charles didn’t say anything. He watched the oncologist’s face, afraid to let his hopes rise.
   “First,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Michelle responded to the radiotherapy extremely well. A single treatment seems to have taken care of the infiltration of her central nervous system. She’s alert and oriented.”
   Charles nodded, hoping that was not all Dr. Keitzman had come to say.
   There was a silence.
   Then the door to the room burst open and in walked the respiratory technician, pushing the hated IPPB machine. “Time for your treatment, Dr. Martel,” said the technician brightly, as if he were bringing some wonderfully pleasurable service. Seeing Dr. Keitzman, the technician skidded to a respectful halt. “Excuse me, Doctor.”
   “That’s quite all right,” said Dr. Keitzman, seemingly pleased at the interruption. “I’ve got to be going anyway.” Then looking down at Charles, he said: “The other thing I wanted to say was that Michelle’s leukemic cells have all but disappeared. I think she’s in remission.”
   Charles felt a warm glow suffuse his body. “God! That’s great,” he said with enthusiasm. Then he got a sharp twinge that reminded him where he was.
   “It certainly is,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “We’re all very pleased. Tell me, Charles. What did you do to Michelle while she was in your house?”
   Charles had trouble containing his joy. His hopes soared. Maybe Michelle was cured. Maybe everything worked as he had guessed. Looking up at Keitzman, Charles thought for a moment. Realizing that he didn’t want to go into a detailed explanation at that point, he said: “I just tried to stimulate her immune system.”
   “You mean by using an adjuvant like BCG?” asked Dr. Keitzman.
   “Something like that,” agreed Charles. He was in no shape to get into a scientific discussion.
   “Well,” said Dr. Keitzman, heading for the door. “We’ll have to talk about it. Obviously whatever you did helped the chemotherapy she’d been given before you took her from the hospital. I don’t understand the time sequence, but we’ll talk about it when you feel stronger.”
   “Yes,” agreed Charles. “When I’m stronger.”
   “Anyway, I’m sure you know the custody proceedings have been canceled.” Dr. Keitzman adjusted his glasses, nodded to the technician, and left.
   Charles’s elation over Dr. Keitzman’s news dulled the painful respiratory treatment, even better than the morphine. As the technician stood by, the positive pressure machine forcibly inflated Charles’s lungs, something a patient would not do himself because of the severity of the pain. The procedure lasted for twenty minutes and when the technician finally left, Charles was exhausted. In spite of the lingering pain, he fell into a fitful sleep.
   Unsure of how much time had passed, Charles was roused by a sound from the other side of the room. He turned his head toward the door and was shocked to discover he wasn’t alone. There, next to the bed, not more than four feet away, sat Dr. Carlos Ibanez. With his bony hands folded in his lap and his silver hair disheveled, he looked old and frail.
   “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Dr. Ibanez softly.
   Charles felt a surge of anger, but remembering Keitzman’s news, it passed. Instead he looked with indifference.
   “I’m glad you’re doing so well,” said Dr. Ibanez. “The surgeons told me you were very lucky.”
   Luck! What a relative term, thought Charles with irritation. “You think getting shot in the chest is lucky?” he asked.
   “That’s not what I meant,” said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. “Hitting your left arm apparently slowed the bullet so that when it entered your chest, it missed your heart. That was lucky.”
   Charles felt a little stab of pain. Although he didn’t feel particularly fortunate, he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. He shook his head slightly to acknowledge Dr. Ibanez’s comment. In truth, he wondered why the old man had come.
   “Charles!” said Dr. Ibanez with renewed emphasis. “I’m here to negotiate.”
   Negotiate? thought Charles, his eyes puzzled. What the hell is he talking about?
   “I’ve given a lot of thought to everything,” said Dr. Ibanez, “and I’m willing to admit that I made some mistakes. I’d like to make up for them if you’re willing to cooperate.”
   Charles rolled his head and looked up at the bottles over his head, watching the intravenous fluid drip from the micropore filter. He controlled himself from telling Ibanez to go to hell.
   The director waited for Charles to respond, but seeing that he would not, the old man cleared his throat. “Let me be very frank, Charles. I know that you could cause us a great deal of trouble now that you’ve become a celebrity of sorts. But that wouldn’t be good for anyone. I have convinced the board of directors not to press any charges against you and to give you your job back…”
   “The hell with your job,” said Charles sharply. He winced with pain.
   “All right,” said Ibanez consolingly. “I can understand if you don’t want to return to the Weinburger. But there are other institutions where we can help you get the kind of job you want, a position where you’ll be able to do your research unhindered.”
   Charles thought about Michelle, wondering about what he’d done to her. Had he really hit on something? He didn’t know but he had to find out. To do that he needed laboratory facilities.
   He turned and examined Dr. Ibanez’s face. In contrast to Morrison, Charles had never disliked Dr. Ibanez. “I have to warn you that if I negotiate, I’m going to have a lot of demands.” In actuality Charles had not given one thought to what he was going to do after he recovered. But lying there, looking at the director, his mind rapidly reviewed the alternatives.
   “I’m prepared to meet your demands, provided they are reasonable,” said Dr. Ibanez.
   “And what do you want from me?” asked Charles.
   “Only that you won’t embarrass the Weinburger. We’ve had enough scandal.”
   For a second, Charles was not sure what Dr. Ibanez meant. If nothing else, the events of the previous week had impressed him with his own impotence and vulnerability. Isolated first in his house, then in intensive care, he had not realized the extent to which he had become a media figure. As a prominent scientist who had risked his life to save his daughter, the press would be happy to hear any criticism he might have of the Weinburger, particularly after the bad notices the institute had already received.
   Dimly Charles began to assess his negotiating strength. “All right,” he said slowly, “I want a research position where I’ll be my own boss.”
   “That can be arranged. I’ve already been in contact with a friend in Berkeley.”
   “And the Canceran evaluation,” said Charles. “All the existing tests have to be scrapped. The drug has to be studied as if you’d just received it.”
   “We already were aware of that,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We’ve started an entirely new toxicity study.”
   Charles stared, his face reflecting astonishment at what Ibanez was saying. “And then there’s the matter of Recycle, Ltd. Dumping of chemicals into the river must stop.”
   Dr. Ibanez nodded. “Your lawyer’s activities got the EPA involved in that affair and I understand the problem will be solved shortly.”
   “And,” said Charles, wondering how far he could go, “I want Breur Chemicals to make a compensatory payment to the Schonhauser family. They can keep their name out of the affair.”
   “I think I can arrange that, particularly if it remains anonymous.”
   There was a pause.
   “Anything else?” asked Dr. Ibanez.
   Charles was amazed that he’d gotten so far. He tried to think of something else but couldn’t. “I guess that’s it.”
   Dr. Ibanez stood up and placed the chair back against the wall. “I’m sorry that we are going to lose you, Charles. I really am.”
   Charles watched Ibanez as he closed the door silently behind him.

   Charles decided if he ever drove cross-country again, it would be without kids and with air conditioning. And if he had to choose between those two conditions, it would be without children. The three had been at each other’s throats ever since they left New Hampshire, though that morning they had been relatively quiet as if the vast expanse of the Utah desert awed them into silence. Charles glanced in the rearview mirror. Jean Paul was directly behind him, gazing out his side of the car. Michelle was next to him, bored and fidgety. Way in the back of the refurbished station wagon, Chuck had made a nest for himself. He had been reading for most of the trip—a chemistry text, of all things. Charles shook his head, acknowledging that he was never going to understand the boy, who now said he wanted to take a summer session at the university. Even if it were a passing fancy, Charles was inordinately pleased when his older son announced that he wanted to be a doctor.
   As they crossed the Bonneville Salt Flats west of Salt Lake City, Charles hazarded a glance at Cathryn sitting next to him. She’d taken up needlepoint at the beginning of the trip and seemed absorbed in the repetitive motion. But sensing Charles’s stare, she looked up and their eyes met. Despite the annoyance of the kids, they both shared a building joy as the harrowing experience of Michelle’s illness and that last violent morning faded into the past.
   Cathryn reached over and placed a hand on Charles’s leg. He’d lost a lot of weight, but she thought he appeared handsomer than he had in years. And the tension that normally tightened the skin around his eyes was gone. To Cathryn’s relief, Charles was at last relaxed, hypnotized by the rushing road and the numbing blur of scenery.
   “The more I think about what’s happened, the less I understand it,” said Cathryn.
   Charles shifted in his seat to find a position that accommodated the fact that his left arm was in a cast. Although he had yet to come to terms with most of the emotions engendered by the affair, there was one thing he had acknowledged. Cathryn had become his best friend. If nothing else, that made the experience worthwhile.
   “So you’ve been thinking?” said Charles, letting Cathryn pick up the conversation wherever she wished.
   Cathryn continued pushing her bright-colored yarn through the canvas mesh. “After all the frenzy of packing and actually leaving, I’ve never really sorted out exactly what happened.”